


corkage

by redpaint



Series: terroir [2]
Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Career Change, M/M, Sommeliers, Wine, excessive wine descriptions, not very shippy at all
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:40:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24195277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpaint/pseuds/redpaint
Summary: Daniel opens a wine shop. The jury is still out as to whether that was a good idea or not.
Relationships: Daniel Ricciardo & Jean-Eric Vergne
Series: terroir [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1746211
Comments: 9
Kudos: 27





	corkage

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Directionless_Foray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Directionless_Foray/gifts).



> this fic, along with all of my undying love and affection, goes to Directionless_Foray. i've been thinking of a sommfic spinoff for ages, and you inspired me to finally do it! thank you so much for your friendship and all your kind words, you're the best.
> 
> this fic can be read as a standalone without any issues, but it's set in the same universe as terroir, just a few years later.

Everyone tells Daniel he must be crazy. _Retail is a dying trade,_ they say, as though he hasn’t heard it a million times before. _What a waste of talent, when a Master certificate means you can work anywhere._

And restaurant work is good, it can even be _great_ when your heart is in it and you feel like you’re making people happy, when the long hours seem worth it because you can’t imagine being anywhere else. It’s good when you’re studying for your Master and wine is the only thing you think about, the only thing you _dream_ about, and stocking the cellar on the restaurant’s dime feels like legal robbery because you’re using it to feed your addiction to new bottles. It’s good when you’re young and shiny and getting featured in magazines that only other industry types read, which is fine because they’re the only people you know anyway.

But then you earn your Master diploma and the world opens up and suddenly there’s a lot more beyond those restaurant doors and the world of options seems too big and everyone’s prowling around for a piece of you and so you quit your job. You quit even though they’re offering to make you wine director of the entire restaurant group and double your salary, and then you take out a loan and open a storefront selling consumers a product they don’t understand at prices barely high enough to make the next month’s rent.

This little boutique, Corkage, is a mad dream turned real. It’s fear and doubt and ambition turned into four white walls and a poured concrete floor in a gentrifying part of town, and maybe Daniel is slightly terrified every time he opens the doors in the morning but he also can’t imagine waking up and doing anything else. He’s good at this. There might not be certificates and awards for running a store but he _knows_ that he’s good at this.

Daniel wanders over to the buzzing neon sign in the window and adjusts his oversized bowling shirt in the reflection. His Vans squeak on the floor, cutting through the soft indie rock playing from the speakers up at the front. The dress code for staff at Red Bull Restaurants was a highly curated kind of casual— playful within the narrow bounds of what management deemed acceptable. But a suit, even a dusty salmon one, worn without a tie, puts a barrier up between you and the customers.

The store itself is mostly just rows and rows of wine racks stretched out across the tight space, but he’s made sure they are all low enough to make conversation over. Each row is bespeckled with little handwritten tasting notes, because to most people terroir is just dirt. Retail may be dying, but there’s no reason its funeral has to be boring.

There are some times (usually around holidays, when the store is bustling and customers have real budgets) that running the store doesn’t feel that different from working in the restaurant. Daniel feels switched _on,_ like he’s running just on the edge of chaos without slipping over, calling on every ounce of charm and knowledge he’d accrued over the years and feeling like a goddamn legend at the end of the day. Still, no matter how inviting he tries to make the space, most days it’s a slow carousel of customers, all of them content to browse on their own and pick something familiar. Sometimes Daniel wears his Master pin as a kind of personal in-joke. It might be a little more effective, if less dignified, to get a pin that simply says _Here To Help._ Lord knows most people need it.

A customer comes in and heads straight for the sparkling section without saying a word. It’s alright, Daniel’s never been put off by shyness. “How’s it going?” he calls, from behind the register. The guy looks up, clearly surprised. His hands are deep in his hoodie pockets. What _is_ it about wine that makes people so _nervous?_. Daniel blames the French. “You looking for something in particular?”

The guy clearly is, hovering around the unchilled champagne, but Daniel’s always had a philosophy of meeting customers where they’re at. If Daniel’s going to take them on a journey he needs to know where they’re starting.

“Anniversary,” the guy shrugs. “I want something special.”

“You thinking something bubbly?”

“Yeah, I mean, you can’t go wrong with champagne right?”

“Sure, but that’s not all that special, is it?” He watches the guy’s eyebrows creep up his forehead. No sweat, he’ll have him in the end. He slips around the counter and breezes down the aisle. “Everyone who can afford it buys their baby champagne for the anniversary. What’s dinner?”

“Duck. With mango mousse for dessert.”

Daniel whistles, scanning the racks. All of the bottles look essentially the same, but he knows the racks by heart. There’s a benefit to being the only employee. He pulls out a bottle by its foil-wrapped neck. “Now _this_ is special. 2016 Schramsburg Reserve. All California, and better than the French stuff. It’s a little pricey, but it’s nothing compared to what you’d pay for it in a restaurant.” He holds out the bottle and lets the guy turn it around in his hands. It really is a damn good bottle of wine. Daniel visited the winery a few years back and had consumed more than his share of sparkling wine before floating back to the car and woozily ordering Max to take them back to the B&B for a nap.

This guy won’t associate the taste of baked pear and hazelnut with that patio, baking under the Napa sun, but he seems sold anyway. He wanders over to the register without much fuss. It’s not Daniel’s hardest sale, or his most satisfying, but he holds out hope that maybe there’s something in this bottle that will expand this guy’s horizons of what sparkling wine can be. If not, at least he knows it will be damn tasty. Daniel slips the bottle into a glittery gift bag and sends the guy on his way.

Odds are that he’s the last customer for the night. At least Daniel hopes so. He heads to the small, cozy space in the back of the shop that’s usually reserved for emergency storage and the occasional class or workshop. It’s almost unrecognizable now that Daniel’s cleared out the clutter. He checks the clock. Thirty minutes to go.

With an ear tuned in for the sound of the front door, he gets to work setting the table with an orderly battalion of wine glasses. Six decanters sit near the end: slim, plain, industry-standard ones, none of the angular, hand-blown pieces Daniel usually prefers. There’s a half-case of mismatched bottles stashed under the table. Daniel pulls them out one by one, admiring the labels he’s about to strip them of.

Each wine is a varying shade of the darkest purple, looking like they should stain the decanters. Instead, they leave delicate, spidery legs down the glass. As he pours the contents of each bottle into the waiting decanters, he can’t help but feel a bit like a magician, stacking his deck before the show. He shakes the thought. This isn’t trickery; this is blind tasting at its purest. Labels are history but they’re also a distraction, bias. In an unmarked vessel, the wines can finally be honest.

Honesty— Daniel wants it from the wines and he’s sure he’ll get it from his guests. Every top-level somm wants to have the strongest opinion in the room, and even more, they want an audience to listen to it. The backroom is a bit small for the number of people he’s invited, but that just promises fireworks. Retail is slow. He has to get his kicks where he can these days. The adrenaline high of restaurant work, and the competition that comes with it, is a drug he still hasn’t managed to kick.

It’s going to be a young crowd, not by design, but because all those people Daniel cut his teeth with seem to be leaving the city, heading for the Bay, or New York, or even putting their language skills to use and moving to Europe. The kids stay, because there’s nowhere better in the world to train for the exams than here. Daniel’s just glad they haven’t deemed him too boring, passé, or, worst of all, _old,_ to be worth their while. He likes to think that he can still taste with the best of them, when he has the spare time to attend a group.

Charles is the first to arrive, just as Daniel is doing the final count at the till. His hair is sticking up in several places and his terrible Ferrari Restaurants tie is half-askew. Daniel leans in for kisses on both cheeks, even as Charles sighs in frustration and relief. “You will not believe the kinds of people we get in for lunch, I swear. Corporate types, all of them. Please tell me you have a bottle of something high-alcohol open.”

“Don’t you worry, I’ve got more than one. You’ll have to wait a few minutes though.”

Charles tuts, but Daniel spots a cheeky grin underneath it. “You’re pressing your luck, mate. I came halfway across the city because you promised me something special, _very_ vaguely might I add. The least you can do is ply me with drinks.”

Ah, the joys of being the man with the keys to the cellar. To be loved and antagonized all at once. Charles gives up on prying for details and loses himself in the display of Oregon reds while Daniel finishes the count.

Daniel doesn’t realize Pierre’s arrived as well until he hears bursts of rapid-fire French being volleyed across the store. Pierre is toting a bottle with a ribbon tied in a sloppy bow around the neck, because that’s just the kind of guy he is. There’s no doubt in Daniel’s mind that it’s some producer he really likes and mentioned offhand to Pierre years ago. Pierre’s eyes glint with something between pride and mischief as he holds it up like a trophy.

“Thought you might not have enough wine, you know? Figured you might need some more.”

Daniel takes the bottle graciously, just glancing at the label before stashing it under the desk for later. Fucking _Domaine de la Côte_ — the best of California Pinot Noir. Daniel makes a mental note to save a bottle of something nice for Pierre’s birthday.

Daniel’s phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s a text from Jev:

> _running late. might not make it, im sorry_.

The message is quickly followed up with a string of frowny face emojis, which doesn’t actually make up for him flaking at the last minute but _does_ spark life into something mummified but fond in Daniel’s chest. It’s a little disappointing, sure, but not totally unexpected— Jev’s only in town for a few days and Daniel invited him at the last minute when he saw Jev’s Instagram story at LAX. He slips his phone back into his pocket. He figures it’s time to make peace with being the only old fuck at the table.

George arrives next, toting along what must be the plus-one he requested. He’s known George long enough to know that his posh accent is a distraction from his unabashedly dirty sense of humor. Still, Daniel slips back into a little restaurant formality, greeting this stranger ( _Lando,_ George informs him) with a handshake and a “Nice to meet ‘ya.”

“Do I need to check for ID?” Daniel asks. George and Lando roll their eyes in unison, which he considers a win. He just hopes someone that young knows his stuff. The wines decanting in the back room weren’t cheap or easy to source, and he’s got an agenda beyond the usual showing off he might do as a host.

Max and Alex are the last to appear. They must have driven over from the old apartment together. The pair gestures apologetically, mumbling something about _goddamn rush hour traffic,_ but Daniel has known Max for too long to think they left any earlier than five minutes before this was due to start. Still, he doesn’t push it. Maybe the years of hospitality training have left him with some social graces after all.

Daniel herds them all into the back room and waits until everyone is seated at the table. This assemblage of all of L.A.’s finest young sommeliers nod at each other, happy enough to be meeting up outside of one of the annual industry events, but mostly they stare at the six unlabeled decanters on the table. Max is looking at Daniel with his eyes narrowed, which means he’s primed to start cracking sarcastic jokes any minute. Better get started then. Tasting with other somms is always a bit of a power struggle, but it’s a little less so when you’re the one holding all the cards.

“I bet you’re wondering why I invited you all here tonight,” Daniel starts, with just the right amount of drama.

“This feels like the start of a murder mystery,” Alex interjects from the far end of the table, earning himself an elbow in the ribs from George.

Daniel gestures to the decanters. “I trust you all know about the Judgment of Paris. They still ask about ancient history on the exams, right?” There are groans and eye rolls all around, which, to be fair, is exactly the reaction he was going for. “The best Cabernets and Chardonnays from France and California were tasted blind and ranked by some of the foremost people in wine. California came out on top and became a wine destination almost overnight.”

Charles taps his fingernails against the base of one of his glasses, one eyebrow raised. “Why are you telling us something we already know?”

“Because we’re about to do something similar. Welcome, gentlemen, to the Judgment of Los Angeles.”

“Doesn’t have the same ring to it,” Pierre mumbles, but now he’s eyeing the wines with greater interest.

“I brought you all here because you’re each doing exciting things in the wine world, and I know you’re going to be tastemakers in the years to come. What happens here tonight might end up changing how we think about where great wine comes from.”

Max leans back in his chair, like he always did when Daniel was making an impressive call in a blind tasting. It’s expertly deployed casualness. “Are you going to tell us what we’re tasting, or do we have to guess that as well?”

Daniel shrugs. “No tricks here. They’re all Shiraz.”

Max smirks. “You mean Syrah.”

“You better think twice next time you say that to an Australian, mate.” Daniel injects it with a bit of venom, enough that everyone knows he’s joking. “I’ve given you all a piece of paper for notes. Once we’ve all tasted the wines and written down our initial thoughts, I just want to open up a discussion, feel free to bounce thoughts off each other. Then at the end, we’ll pick our favorites.”

“How many are old world, as opposed to new world?” Lando asks, squinting closer at the decanters.

“That’s for you to figure out,” Daniel says with a wink, and picks up the first decanter. He pours it smoothly, all muscle memory. No doubt his guests are watching his techniques like hawks, ready to pick apart his mistakes when they get home. _Fuck ‘em all_ he thinks, moving around the table. _In a year and a half I haven’t had any customers who actually care about the finer points of wine service._

The room quiets as he pours the other wines, everyone suddenly occupied with sticking their noses deep into the glasses. It’s a bit like a meditation retreat, all deep breaths and sighs and not a single word spoken between them. The breathing gives way to slurping aeration on the palate, then the splash of wine spit politely into the provided buckets. Some time for taking notes, then each of his guests, in turn, decide to move onto wine two, and the suite begins again. Daniel tastes each wine along with them, even though he could rattle off the flavor profiles in his sleep.

Wine one: 2012 Bernard Levet Côte-Rôtie, a classic bold French Syrah— somehow smokey and floral all at once. It’s like a punch to the face even on the _n_ th tasting.

Wine two: 2017 Reyneke Reserve Red, from South Africa. It’s a biodynamic vineyard, producing a wine full of wild flavor, spice, and acid. It’s a wild card, and not a subtle one. More than a few eyebrows go up as the group sips from their glasses.

Wine three: 2011 Penfolds Barossa Valley Shiraz, one of the producers that put Aus on the map. Fruit-forward, but with a whiff of tar that could easily have some of the less experienced somms at the table thinking it’s old-world. To Daniel, it tastes like home.

Wine four: Another French classic, 2015 Hermitage La Chapelle. It’s an intoxicating mix of dark fruit, tobacco, and leather. It’s not cheap, but the price tag is worth the spark of recognition in Max’s eyes when he gets to it. It was one of their first splurge bottles, another spectacular chapter in the domaine’s long history.

Wine five: A tricky bottle of 2018 St. Joseph, young enough that it’s retained its licorice bite and heady nose. An avant-garde pick as far as Côte du Rhône goes, but exemplary of the region’s range.

Wine six: 2016 Ambassador Vineyards Renewal Syrah. Daniel smirks to himself as he picks up the glass. If Jev had been able to make it, would he have recognized his own wine? He’s spent the past four years producing deeply traditional styles from his upstart vineyard in Washington state. Tasting this exact wine that inspired this whole experiment. It’s France through and through— it just happens to be grown in organic soil a couple of hours from Seattle.

It’s an even mix of old world and new, centuries-old styles alongside the avant-garde. Daniel would never admit it to this lot, but he’s spent a long time putting this flight together. All that’s left to do is see the reactions. One by one the other somms set down their pens and look up, though George and Charles keep writing long after the others are done. They would probably have gone on longer if Daniel didn’t pointedly clear his throat after a couple of minutes. “Alright, first thoughts?”

Every one of them rushes to be the first one to speak, the usual genteel tasting etiquette gone by the wayside.

“You sure you poured the right bottle for number two? It _reeks_ of Grenache—”

“Should we start with the first one?”

“—surprised by the sheer spectrum of notes going on here—”

“—no _way_ number five is French. No way.”

Daniel folds his arms across his chest and watches it all unfold. He checks _lively discussion_ off his mental list of goals for the evening. They’ve gotten that one over with quick enough. Now to see if they can make it to _prove once again that France isn’t all it’s cracked up to be._ Pierre is the one currently insisting that the St. Joseph must be Chilean, so they’re looking good on that front as well.

Daniel watches on as they go around in circles. It’s indistinguishable from the endless tastings that filled his twenties, the memories so immediate and arresting that he pulls up a chair and sits down. Something halfway between pride and shame stuck in his chest. Pride for having so many talented people around him, for having the skill to pick a conversation-starting flight of wines for such a choosy audience, for hosting them in this little store of his. Shame for not being on the other side of the tasting, for wanting so badly to jump back into those shark-infested waters and prove his mettle, as though he hadn’t already been bitten _hard_. Luckily, the others are so absorbed in the conversation that they don’t seem to notice him taking a step back.

“I’m getting the same chalk notes on both four and five. Is anyone else getting that?”

“It’s _so_ Rhône, in contrast to three, which has this attempt at elegance, but—”

“ _Attempt?_ ”

They fight like alleycats until Charles finally manages to get them to go through the flight in order. Most of the wines, unsurprisingly, illicit strong and opposing reactions. The Hermitage is either rich and silky, or dusty and _tired_ , depending on who you ask. Daniel’s beloved Penfolds is both heralded as a brash wine with a strong point of view and trashed as mass-market swill. They keep it light, for the most part, but Daniel can sense some smarting egos underneath the jabs. He prays they’ve at least got the wisdom not to hold grudges.

Once the squabbling gets really inconsequential, Daniel steps in again. “Everyone ready to vote?” That elicits another round of comments and objections, which he patiently rides out. “Too bad, we’re voting now. Just rank all six on the back of your sheet and then I’ll come grab ‘em.”

Lando covers his paper with one hand like he’s guarding the nuclear codes. Alex tries to use his height to look over Lando’s shoulder and gets shoved a little for his effort. This isn’t exactly the dignified voting at the Judgment of Paris. Still, Daniel gathers the votes and tallies up the scores on his phone with uncharacteristic solemnity.

With great ceremony, he pulls the box with the bottles out from under the table. They rattle slightly, the only sound in the room. Daniel looks down at the scoresheet again, just to make totally certain. “Alrighty then, we’ve got a tie.”

The table erupts into chaos.

It takes the better part of an hour to settle them down again. Encouraging second tastes from each of the wines does help a bit, but that might be because no one is bothering to spit anymore. They mercifully run out of things to say about Syrah around 10, around when Pierre, George, and Lando make their departure, blaming early-morning tasting groups and lunch shifts.

Charles and Max stay behind, arguing over the virtues of Port. Alex leans against the doorframe, looking on in amusement but also clearly ready to leave. Eventually, Daniel physically shepherds the squabbling pair to the door and tells them to have the discussion outside. They snipe and they groan but eventually they part ways. Daniel doesn’t envy Alex; he knows that Max will keep worrying the argument like a dog with a bone, long after it’s over.

The shop is usually too quiet for his liking, but when the door swings shut behind them it ushers in a much-needed silence. It’s like a room heaves a sigh of relief; everything is as it should be, just him alone among the assembled bottles again. He should lock up and head home. If he were still working in restaurants he would be in the middle of his shift, but now he’s old and boring and ready to watch half of an episode of a Netflix cooking show and pass out.

His phone buzzes again, startlingly loud in the quiet shop. It’s Jev again. How polite he is, finally following up almost three hours later.

_ > so sorry I know it’s late_  
_> but are you still there?_  
_> I can be there in five_

Daniel thinks of his bed and the bottle of low-dosage weed gummies on his nightstand. He thinks of the satisfaction of locking up the shop for the night and admiring the storefront as he walks away. He’s never been good at saying no to people.

_ > yeah, i’m still here, swing on by!_

Maybe it’s for old times sake, maybe it’s the residual mix of jealousy and admiration that came along with Jev actually doing what every somm dreams of doing and starting his own vineyard. Either way, Daniel heads back into the backroom and clears away the array of dirty glasses, putting down a couple of clean ones in their place. There’s still wine in several of the decanters, but Daniel pulls another bottle of the Shiraz just in case. French versus Aussie reds had always been the subject of spirited disagreement between the two of them.

Jev arrives smelling faintly of citrus cologne and cigarettes, both no-nos for the professional palate. It somehow still suits him. He looks good: well-rested and at ease. Daniel might even venture to say he looks _happy_.

“Everyone else is gone?” Jev asks, surveying the shop with unguarded curiosity.

“Yeah, I was about to close up when you texted. I’ve still got some bottles open in the back, though.”

“By all means, lead the way.”

It’s disarming to sit across the table from Jev, like they’re both young again, two kids desperate to prove themselves in the insular little world that meant _everything_ to them. It’s the opposite of sitting at the head of the table in front of the next generation. Jev remembers him before he learned to cover up his own uncertainty with a thick coat of mythology. Back when he wore ill-fitting suits, not knock-off Prada shirts.

The thing is, he should remember Jev like that too. He should remember the years he spent clawing his way up the treacherous ladder at Red Bull Restaurants, barely holding on by his fingernails, only to be unceremoniously booted off near the top. But leaning back in his chair, one arm thrown over the back, two buttons undone at the top of his cream linen shirt, it’s hard to imagine. _This_ Jev left the somm world in pieces, glued himself back together, and built his own little empire from the literal dirt of the Columbia Gorge. He looks like he hasn’t looked back since. It’s hard not to be jealous, but Daniel tries his best anyway.

Jev swirls the leftover Hermitage in his glass. “Did I miss anything good? I must have, you’ve got my wine on the table.”

“Just a little test, blind tasting Syrah. France versus everyone else.” He downplays it a little, suddenly self-conscious of how much effort went into something so modest. Seven somms in the back of his shop is barely larger than any of the tasting roups they used to frequent. Jev looks interested nonetheless.

“And what was the verdict?”

“A tie, between yours and the Côte-Rôtie,” Daniel admits. Jev whistles, a rare smile spreading wide on his face. “Now don’t get a big head about it, they’re just kids, maybe they don’t know what they’re talking about.”

“Bastard! Don’t bullshit me. You picked my wine, I know you like it.”

Daniel had forgotten how much he liked winding Jev up. “What can I say? Game recognizes game.” Daniel can’t stop himself smiling either. The judgment was an odd kind of victory, not just for Jev, or for American wines in general, but for himself as well. Maybe he’s still got it. Maybe the exit door on his old life isn’t totally closed just yet.

“Well, regardless, I will choose to be flattered. It’s rare that you can get a room of somms to agree on anything, let alone the young ones. They always want to have the contrary opinion.”

“You really should have seen it. It’s a bit of a mindfuck, hanging out with these kids. They all want it so bad. Every one of them would knife the others if it meant getting their Master pin a year earlier. Were we ever that bad?”

Jev snorts. “We were worse.”

“Jeez, what happened to us?”

“I don’t know about you, but I took a hard look at myself and decided I couldn’t work in a field where every single person was as bloodthirsty as I was.” He takes a hold of the bottle of Ambassador, tilting it to look at the label like it’s the first time he’s seen it. “It’s nicer at the winery. We’re a team.” The memory of RBR hangs between them, unspoken. Daniel can’t help thinking about open doors.

“Do you ever regret it?” Daniel blurts out, and immediately feels like an ass. There’s no need to push his own anxieties onto someone who’s already been through this, and come out shining on the other side. “I mean, do you ever miss it? Being a somm?”

Jev smiles to himself, staring down into his glass. “I used to. Not so much anymore. Do you?”

It’s a question Daniel’s been trying to avoid ever since he opened up the shop. The lease runs on a year-to-year basis. He doesn’t have the funds to have regrets. This is the only thing he can imagine doing, but he’s never actually accounted for how much of that conviction is fear turned to steel. He swirls the dregs of his glass to buy himself time to put the words together.

“Sometimes you miss the recognition, you know? The sense that people really appreciate what you do. It’s a hell of a lot easier to get recognized when you’re surrounded by people who understand how much work goes into it.” Daniel cringes, hearing himself put it into words. “Christ, I sound like an entitled prick, don’t I?”

Jev shakes his head. “It’s a ridiculous industry. Too many certificates and prizes and awards, too much money. They condition you to equate recognition with success. With happiness.”

The bottle of Ambassador Syrah is free of the gaudy gold stickers that typically announce awards and jury prizes. The label simply declares its grape, year, and origin underneath a line drawing of a sapling.

“And you learned how to live without it?”

“I barely lived without it. But I still did it every day. But then, I don’t know, you learn to live on something else? I lived on work. I still do.”

Daniel hasn’t taken a vacation day in over a year. “I think I might know what you mean.” 

“I’ve seen it in everyone who leaves restaurant work. We all leave so we can feel more human, then we work ourselves to death.” He sounds more resigned than bitter.

“You’re telling me. I can’t take any time for myself, though. We’re running on such tight margins here, and it’s always a few millimeters from total disaster, and if it all comes down and I didn’t put every fucking waking minute into stopping it, I would never forgive myself.” He’s a sommelier in his thirties, he really should know how to handle his wine by now. Instead, he’s let the alcohol go to his head. Poor Jev, he’d only come around because Daniel invited him. Getting maudlin between glasses of over-oxidized wine really isn’t masterful hosting.

Jev rests his hand on Daniel’s knee and squeezes sympathetically. “When you finally decide to let yourself take a break, come visit. We’re renovating an old barn next to the vines into a guesthouse.”

Daniel wants to protest, but he stops himself. September _is_ one of his slowest months. And Jev’s looking at him so hopefully, so openly, so absent of the all-consuming self-discipline that characterized him during their years as roommates. Daniel’s been around long enough to know when that posture is natural and when it’s just a well-fitted costume. “Don’t tempt me,” he says, adding in a wink at the last second for security.

Jev doesn’t look convinced. He rests one hand on Daniel’s shoulder and leans in closer. “I mean it. I know you, you need more room than what’s between these four walls. You’ll go crazy.”

It’s more of an order than a request. Daniel swallows hard and nods. He’s spent all this time building this chapter of his life with blinders on, telling himself that if he looks straight ahead for long enough, he’ll reach the end of the home straight. But there’s still a lot of track ahead.

Daniel wishes Jev goodnight and sends him back to his hotel with a beautiful bottle of 2004 Barolo and a promise to text soon. He waits until Jev’s out of sight to switch off the neon sign, so as not to disrupt the bath of pink light that follows him down the street.

Daniel may have been Wine X’s 2015 young sommelier of the year, and LA Magazine’s reader-picked top sommelier three years running, but now he’s just the sole employee of his own goddamn wine shop and that’s something to be goddamn proud of. The shop might be slower than the restaurant, and it might barely turn a profit, and sometimes the long days of August give him too much time to think that maybe everyone else was right and retail _is_ a waste of talent and the final dregs of his youth, but maybe Jev’s had the right idea all along.

Defining your own rules. Making a clean break from the ones that drove you out in the first place. Renewal. Going to Washington won’t cure him of the desire to go back, but it might be a good start. There’s something to getting away from the shops, from the restaurants, out to where his fancy certificates mean almost nothing and wine is just juice and earth, without any higher mysteries surrounding it.

His storefront is all glass. From inside the shop, the world outside doesn’t seem too big. Daniel props open the front door and invites it in. Warm summer air blows down the aisles, ruffling the notes on the racks. Daniel closes his eyes and lets it fill his lungs: the smell of ozone, petrol on cooling pavement, the resin of the sumac tree that borders his stretch of sidewalk. Until he can take a break, this can be his little domaine, his estate.

**Author's Note:**

> _corkage - a charge made by a restaurant or hotel for serving wine that has been brought in by a customer._
> 
> as per terroir, a lot of inspiration was taken from the Somm movies, in this case Somm 3. Daniel is based on Dustin Wilson and Jev is based on Rajat Parr. Domaine de la Côte is actually Rajat Parr's wine, which wins the Pinot Noir tasting Dustin hosts in Somm 3.
> 
> tumblr - redpaint


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